


They were our friends (what measure a soldier?)

by Ayay



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 1.04, Friendship, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Reminiscing, kinda angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayay/pseuds/Ayay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Marsac’s spirit died in that forest in Savoy. Five years ago. It just took this long for his body to catch up.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	They were our friends (what measure a soldier?)

##### Reaction fic to ‘The Good Soldier' It's this, basically: <http://musketeertexts.tumblr.com/post/76219327564/619-whoever-labeled-dysfunctional-a-bad-thing>[  
](http://www.tumblr.com/search_lightbox/musketeertexts/76219327564#)

##### Warning: Spoilers up through 1.04. Canonical character death, excessive introspection, inaccurate research of PTSD, some brief religious jargon, historical timeline fuckery. M/M if you want it to be. Although given the style of Dumas, I think this relationship could realistically be pretty gen.

##### Disclaimer, notes on timelines and author headcanon at the end.

* * *

 

“Marsac’s spirit died in that forest in Savoy. Five years ago. It just took this long for his body to catch up.”

 

 

Aramis joined the Musketeers the year they were founded, but he’s been a soldier in one of France’s armies or another for all of his adult life. A lot of the French military is segregated by class distinctions, but there remains something willfully egalitarian about the similarities of circumstance on the battlefield. When your boots are soaked in mud and the blood and organs of the dead, wealth or titles seem to have little meaning.

Aramis has always been peculiarly at home on the battlefield.

“In battle and in the boudoir, eh? That’s where our Aramis makes his living.” Marsac laughs, cuffing him non-too-gently when Aramis is put on parade duty again after being caught with whoever’s mistress for the nth time.

“I have heard no complaints about my prowess in either locale, my friend.” Aramis leers exaggeratedly, and dodges the next blow.

Marsac is handsy in a way that veteran soldiers often are, because when you’ve dug a musket bullet out of the thigh of your best friend, it seems silly to worry over a few touches here and there. Aramis likes the way he shares his warmth freely on cold stakeouts, sitting with shoulders and legs pressed together and one arm flung across Aramis’ back on nights when the air almost glitters with the cold.

Marsac is a career soldier, too. But even Aramis, who has been several times disciplined for taking unnecessary risks, is willing to admit that the man is too crazy to be anything but a professional killer. There’s something about his wild blue eyes, his sharp smile and vicious laughter that bespeaks an untamed nature, barely restrained by the laws of war. There are few soldiers as skilled as Marsac with sword or musket, but in all fairness, there are just about no soldiers as insane as Marsac, as willing to charge into a fight without a thought for the consequences.

They entered the ranks of the King’s elite in the same year, and Aramis had quickly gravitated to the other man, sensing a kindred spirit in mischief and in battle. Marsac’s charm is magnetizing. Aramis finds himself turning to the other man constantly, like the needle of a compass always swinging back to North. Marsac's compassion and loyalty are ferocious, and his temper as dangerous and as violent as a summer’s storm. His laugh is almost as sharp as his blade, and only his ease with the Musketeer’s weaponry prevent that wit from getting him into more trouble than it does. This is not to say that it doesn’t get him—and by extension, Aramis—into a fair amount of trouble, anyways.

Some soldiers develop intricate tactics for avoiding death, but Marsac seems to do the opposite, to court it as he would a fine lady—with flirting eyes and quicksilver tongue and utterly no regard for his own safety.

“I swear I’ll cut your tongue out myself if it ever causes me to have to run like that again.” Aramis tells his friend seriously, whispering shallowly and trying to stifle his heavy pants. Aramis is crouched in a hayloft, hat barely brushing the ceiling beam. Marsac has flung himself out full length at his friend's feet, shaking soundlessly with laughter and causing the entire platform to vibrate.

“Forgive me, I couldn’t resist, I will control myself next time, but, oh, my stomach…” He can barely get the words out, hiccoughing, and curls inwards, clutching at his belly. “Her face…!”

Aramis allows that the landlady’s face had been pretty funny when she’d discovered the rat in the mayor’s soup. Eyes wide, pursed mouth parted, even her wrinkles had looked bewildered.

To be fair, she had run a remarkably clean inn—Marsac had been the one to put the rat in the soup. The mayor was a sour-faced old man who hated Musketeers and the King loudly and openly, and who’d spat in Marsac’s face at the sight of the blue cloaks. Marsac had gotten his payback for the slight in the tradition of small children in every village, which was embarrassing enough, but had he’d called the mayor a whey-faced ape and shot the mayor’s man on reflex when he’d had pulled a pistol on them.

Which is why the two of them are hiding in a hayloft like guilty children, while half the town searched for them with pitchforks and torches.

“You will be charged with manslaughter,” Aramis predicts gloomily, “and I will have to inform your latest beau, and she will cry on me, and all because you couldn’t resist calling a man a monkey.”

“I have the fullest confidence that you will comfort her as well as you are able.” Marsac prods Aramis’ boot and sits up with a cheerful, lascivious grin, massaging his stomach. “And you cannot deny he looked extraordinarily like one.”

“He might have had the face of an ape, but you’ve just demonstrated fairly good proof for having the brain of one!”

They might have continued in that vein for some time, only then the barn door slams open and a villager bellows, “They’re in here!”

Then everything gets a little smoky and crowded, and they have to save the witticisms for later.

Aramis is a little regretful—he’d thought up some particularly choice phrases that Marsac probably would have appreciated. Later, when they are sitting in the tavern of the next village over, his insults no longer seem exactly appropriate, particularly as, by his rough estimate, Marsac had saved his life perhaps half a dozen times in the wild escape from the hayloft to the tavern.

After maybe two more such narrow escapes, Marsac is willing enough to teach Aramis some of the finer elements of shooting: to breathe evenly and fire during a natural inhalation, rather than whilst holding one’s breath. He teaches Aramis to always carry extra powder in his kit, to grind down bullets by hand once they’ve come out of the mold, and personally inspect every ball for imperfections that might affect its flight. He is endlessly patient at the shooting range, tutoring Aramis until his skill with the musket is better than anyone else’s in the regiment, and a near-rival for Marsac’s own ability. But he laughs when Aramis asks for similar tips on how to duel with sword and dagger.

“My style wouldn’t work for you, my friend.” He says cryptically, teeth sharp in his smile.

Aramis realizes why perhaps five, or maybe six duels later. This one is because a Red Guard had bloodied Marsac’s new gloves, and Aramis had protested—‘you can’t seriously challenge someone whom _you’ve_ just punched in the mouth’—but the man had already accepted before he finished speaking, spitting out a bloody tooth and snarling for vengeance. 

“Shut up, Aramis. He’s just said yes, didn't you hear, and I can’t back down now, can I?” Marsac replies easily, eyeing the other man as he unsheathes his sword. “You’ll be my second?”

“As if you even have to ask anymore.” Aramis grumbles, resigned.

Marsac has fought duels over spilled drink, mispronounced words, and once, a cat's sprained tail. It's almost like he seeks them out, carefully goads others into challenging him so that he can bare his teeth in a delighted smile and accept. Thankfully, so far he has been as good at winning duels as he is at creating them. 

If Marsac shoots like he has made a pact with the devil for inhuman accuracy, then that is the result of clever aiming and long practice with the targets. But Marsac’s skill with blades comes from a bravery that is near-suicidal, or perhaps only suicidally idiotic. He moves like lighting. Given a choice, he always, always attacks rather than defending. Sometimes even when there is no rational choice. His skill with his sword is like the skill of a young wolf that has never been defeated, that does not know the caution that fear teaches. 

“If you had been a moment slower, he would have gutted you like a pig.” Aramis observes, stitching up a long, thin gash that might have been his friend’s death. At its deepest point, it goes a full inch into Marsac’s chest, neat as a surgical incision between his ribs. It’s blind luck that the blade nicked only skin and muscle, and Aramis tells Marsac this, trying and failing not to sound like a nagging fishwife.

“Well it’s a good thing I was a moment faster, wasn’t it.” Marsac responds peevishly, cursing at the pain as Aramis ties off the thread.

It had been a moment of beauty, actually, and Aramis can’t help but replay it in his mind. Even as the tip of the blade had entered his chest, Marsac had somehow bent backwards with the easy grace of a dancer, and the short, deadly blade of his forgotten dagger had swung up as his opponent was recoiling into a defensive position. He’d caught the Red Guard’s sword on his dagger and twisted down to disarm his opponent even as he slid his own rapier forward in a textbook killing blow, his movements graceful and swift even as the pain made itself apparent in his tightening features. It was one of the things that had drawn Aramis to him at first, all those years ago. Marsac makes swordplay look like a child's dance, whirling stomping feet and an euphoric grin, so that watching, one cannot help but appreciate the aesthetics of the scene, and forget, momentarily, the death that dances alongside, just a length of tempered steel away. 

“If you’re idiot enough to get hurt, you can take a couple of stitches without crying about it.” Aramis informs him tartly, shaking off the memory and the residual flash of horror from when he’d seen the wet patch of fresh blood on a white shirt. He thinks he will never get used to the irrational terror he feels whenever Marsac is injured, which is unfortunate, as his friend’s penchant for unnecessary risks lead only too often to stab wounds and bullet holes and other, varied injuries. Someday Marsac’s accurate gun and lightning-fast blade will no longer be an adequate substitute for his stunning lack of survival instincts, and then what will happen?

Aramis leans forward and bites off the end of the thread. His stitches are getting pretty good with all this practice. Neat and symmetrical—just like the ones on Marsac’s arm, and on his back, and on both his legs. Aramis’ marks are all over Marsac. A little vindictively, he takes the flask of liquor out of Marsac’s grip and splashes the dregs over the newest set of orderly black lines. Marsac howls with outrage and surprised pain and nearly decks him on instinct, but turns the move into a headlock, pulling Aramis’ head in close to Marsac’s chest.

“Mind my stitches!” Aramis yelps a warning as Marsac rubs knuckles roughly over his scalp.

“It’s fine, mother.” He says, blue eyes a crinkled tease, before letting Aramis go to inspect his work. “As fine as any seamstress’ work. Aramis, I do believe you’ve missed your calling in life. These would not look out of place on the queen’s own bedclothes.” He leers. “As I’ve no doubt you’ve checked.”

“She is our queen, and I’m sure I don’t know what you’re insinuating.” Aramis sniffs haughtily, then presses two fingers to the side of the cut to inspect the swelling. Marsac sucks in a breath at the pain, stills. “Don’t let it get infected or I’ll have to douse you again.”

“As startling as it may seem, I have dealt with such injuries before.” Marsac grumbles, but his complaint is offset by the warm look in his eye. “Help me get my shirt back on. I hate these chest wounds, it’s a devil to raise one’s arms.”

“Help yourself.” Aramis retorts, packing away his needle and thread. He stands with the absent intention of maybe finding some more liquor for drinking, not disinfecting—when Marsac reaches out and grabs his elbow, shirt still clenched in the other hand. “Aramis.” He says, voice rough and oddly sincere. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get hurt so stupidly next time and I suppose we’ll call it even.” Aramis says after a surprised pause. He tugs out of Marsac’s warm grip. “If you’ll sit here and let those stitches set a moment, I’ll beg you a carafe of wine from the officer’s supplies.” He says, an offering of forgiveness.

“Aramis, I knew you loved me.” Marsac replies, which is not a promise to stay still, exactly, but his blue eyes are bright and fond. It's as close as he is ever likely to apologize. Something unspeakable tightens in Aramis’ chest. He looks away as Marsac begins to wrestle his shirt over his head with exaggeratedly stiff motions, slyly peeking out to see if Aramis will take pity and help him.

“Yes, well.” Aramis doesn’t dither, because that would be insane. Instead he ducks out of the room and heads for the cellars.

Luckily, it’s Eloise on duty in the kitchens, and she waves off his most charming smile and immediately hands him a dusty bottle.

“Tell your friend that some of us value his life a little more than he does.” She says, but the worry on her face belies the harsh words. “Tell him to heal up quickly, because he’s promised Margaret a meal at the Royal Hind, and she cannot collect if he is dead.”

“I certainly will.” Aramis assures her. “And he is fine. It is nothing more than a scratch. I have cut myself more, shaving.” It’s a lie, certainly, but a harmless one. Aramis has spent enough time worrying about Marsac that he is careful to allay others' fears over the idiot.

“You be careful too.” Eloise snaps, and the worry does not leave her face. "You're as bad as each other."

“No fears, darling. I'll keep him safe for you.” Aramis promises gallantly and grabs for the wine.

It is a surprisingly good vintage.

They make a good enough living doing the King’s dirty work and finding extra money where they can.

The Musketeers grow from being a whimsy of the young King to being a fearsome fighting force, and under the aegis of Captain Treville, they play a major role in much of France’s wars, both at home and abroad. When the King appoints Richelieu as his chief minister, the wars abroad suddenly get a lot more frequent. Aramis appreciates the correlating rise in wages, but the constant tedium-and-terror mix of battle and blood does start to grate on one's nerves, sometimes. 

They swore loyalty to King Louis XIII unto death, but, Aramis thinks somewhat uncharitably, being willing to die for someone is not the same as being willing to excuse someone’s stupidity. He thinks this while drunk on three bottles of wine, though, and assures Marsac that it is not a traitorous thought, since he will not remember it in the morning.

They are in Valtellina with the combined forces of the Three Leagues this night, and the blood of dead comrades is still heavy on the air. Getting involved in this war is the new Cardinal Richelieu’s plan, mostly, for the glory of Catholic France and the destruction of Habsburgs and Huguenots.

Aramis values his theology as much as the next man, but he is probably less faithful than he had been when, a much younger man, he had once contemplated going into the clergy. Now, he thinks knows that enemy soldiers die as easily and as painfully as one's friends, and he thinks that this war with the Habsburgs is a miserable way to demonstrate Catholicism's superiority over the Protestant faith. God will sort out the heterodox from the orthodox in the afterlife, if that is what He desires. It seems a bit redundant to expend such mortal effort to do so in this life, too. And to do so with such profligate waste.

It seems a pity, is all, if that is not too disloyal a thing to say.

“Disloyal or not,” Marsac interjects in his curious, rasping voice, “I agree with you, my friend. The king is a fool at best and a homicidal buffoon at worst, to use the lives of his most loyal men so easily, and for a cause that is not even France’s.” Marsac’s voice is usually a soothing tenor, but anger and drink turn his dulcet tones into something harsh and discordant that turns Aramis’ stomach.

Aramis thinks, somewhat ridiculously, of the voice a warrior angel of heaven might have, fallen to earth and righteously furious at the decay and the all too mortal misery around him. He rouses himself out of idiotic fantasy when he realizes that his silence might be taken for treacherous—not to mention sacrilegious—assent.

“Careful, Marsac.” He mumbles, grabbing for the flagon in Marsac’s hand. “You go perilously close to conversations we shouldn’t be having.”

“Why not? They were good men, and they were our friends, and they died for no reason I can fathom.” Marsac holds on to the wine, obstinate. His eyes catch Aramis’, blue and brimming with tears of helpless rage.

Aramis finds another bottle on the floor, still half full, fortuitously. He raises that, instead, and taps it against the one clenched in Marsac’s hand. “They were our friends.” He repeats, and it isn’t enough, but it’s all he can say. He licks his teeth, tries to ignore the growing fuzziness in his mouth.

“They were our friends, and those were our orders. We are soldiers of the king before all else.” He knows the truth of those words in his bones like a catechism, accepts the reality of the soldier's lot in life even as he despises its aftereffects on the living. But Marsac's eyes are still cold with fury at the king, the cardinal, and the world, and his mouth is twisted in denial. Aramis drains the bottle and wisely turns the talk to other topics.

The next day, their commander gives the order to try to break through the enemy line across the Pass, and the loss of life is the worst yet.

Aramis finds Marsac after the killing is done, standing in the middle of a field of dead and dying. It is perhaps an hour after the day’s fighting has been declared over, and most of the screams have petered off into moans and other, softer noises.

“Marsac!” He cries, and tries to ignore the hitch of gladness in his throat at the sight of that familiar figure. He’d lost sight of him early in the day’s fighting, gotten separated after losing his horse and then spent hours trying to ignore the worry in the back of his mind as his sword parried and slashed mechanically. The premature relief almost physically sticks in his throat when Marsac staggers and falls to his knees. Aramis swears a heartfelt prayer or blasphemy to any god who might hear. In the absence of a supernatural response, he slogs through the blood and dirt as quickly as he can, kicking aside discarded armor and limbs. 

He reaches his friend just in time to see Marsac vomit violently and convulse. Aramis catches his hair back, checking him over for injuries. He can find none—the drying blood on Marsac's leathers does not appear to be his.

“Are you hurt—what is the matter? Dear friend, it is fine, the fighting is over.” Aramis soothes, kneeling in the muck, one hand now rubbing circles over Marsac's back, murmuring meaningless soft endearments. Battle shock is a common enough ailment among soldiers, even professionals, but he has never seen Marsac taken by it before. Instinctively, Aramis bends around his friend, futilely seeking to shield him from the carnage of battle.

“It is not fine.” Marsac dashes water from his cheeks and presses his face into Aramis’ shoulder. This close, Aramis can feel the fine tremors that wrack his body and do not stop. “Oh my god, will it never be fine.” He mumbles, breath a despairing sigh against Aramis’ neck. Without wine, without jokes, Aramis does not know how to comfort him. He brings his arms around Marsac’s shoulders and they kneel like that, silent for a while amidst the last echoes of the day’s deaths.

“They were our friends.” Marsac breathes finally, like a prayer or a confession, a plea for absolution.

It’s maybe two months after that strange moment in Valtellina. Marsac is still mostly the same wild soul that Aramis had met, hours after signing his commission with the Musketeers, long legs stretched out and a promising grin that was scared of nothing and no one.

Now, two years later, they rank among the most senior Musketeers. Some of the newer recruits tell tales about them, and Aramis cultivates the best rumors like a new plant. Marsac is happy enough to back his boasts with increasingly ridiculous rumors about their past exploits, and they trade tales with the ease and fluidity of jugglers at the circus. They are fairly matched in battle as well, anticipate and support each other’s moves with the grace of long familiarity, although Aramis still thinks that Marsac is ultimately still probably the more lethal. He still has the tendency to throw himself into violence with no thoughts for the consequences, to strike faster, swifter and harder than prudence might suggest. He still smiles warmly in silent apology when Aramis scolds and patches up the latest wound. 

The blue eyes, long lashed and wicked, creased a little bit by the years, are more familiar to Aramis than his own.

Aramis and Marsac are known throughout the taverns of Paris as a wild pair, inseparable examples of the best of the Royal Musketeers, always ready to drink and dice and flirt and fight to uphold the King's name. As the regiment has matured, their pay has increased, a little, and the quality of the mistresses Aramis pursues has risen dramatically. Marsac's hats have gotten more impressive, and their cloaks are now blue velvet instead of Flemish wool. The fundamentals of being a soldier have not really changed, though. Aramis likes the daily patterns of his life. The bloodshed of his chosen life lies heavy on his heart, some days, but he is relieved by the little tasks of teasing the new soldiers and insulting Red Guards and as always, the assured presence of his brother soldiers.  

Marsac teases him just as hard as he used to, and in turn Aramis dutifully backs Marsac’s countless duels and willingly, even gleefully, helps plan involved and delicate pranks on the Cardinal’s Red Guards. Their lives will never be peaceful, but they are for the most part good nonetheless.

But some days, Marsac’s smile disappears and his voice goes hoarse and cruel. He drowns himself in wine with steady, scary intent. Then, little but fighting will rouse him out of the haze of alcohol and ineffectively banked anger. The trembles, too, make occasional reoccurrences, although thankfully, so long as Aramis can tell, never in the heat of battle. Marsac’s enthusiasm for fighting does not wane, but a couple of times Aramis finds him afterwards once the adrenaline wears off, vomiting helplessly just as he had that day in Valtellina.

Marsac and Aramis are dicing in the Musketeer’s garrison one afternoon in late fall, idly scamming some of the new recruits who are too green to know Marsac’s reputation at the gaming tables. Until they learn, their gold is as good as his.

Captain Treville comes out above them, his face set in an even more annoyed grimace than it usually is, and Aramis makes the dice disappear with a practiced sweep of his hand. Treville had forbid them to gamble within the walls of the garrison a few days ago, after the other soldiers had begun to grumble more loudly than usual about lost wages. It’s been a slow couple of weeks, and with less fighting than usual, tempers are running high. The Cardinal forbid dueling only a few months ago, and Aramis has had a tough time keeping Marsac obedient to the recent edicts. 

“Marsac, Aramis. Call together the fifth unit. There’s a training exercise on the border of Savoy. You’re to set out at five tomorrow.” Distracted by affairs of state, or so Aramis assumes, Treville barely spares a glance for the men below before turning back into his office. Aramis lets out a relieved breath and grabs at Marsac’s hands even as he is reaching out to collect his winnings. “That was lucky.” He murmurs. “Let’s not push our chances.”

There is a fey smile playing around Marsac’s lips that Aramis has noticed a few times recently, but still doesn’t really understand. It’s a new expression, post-Valtellina, and although it usually signifies harmless (mostly harmless) mischief more than anything else, for some reason it still sets Aramis on edge.

“Porthos and Ferdinand are probably in the Lorne today.” Marsac suggests evenly after he fails to break Aramis’ grip on his wrists. “I bet they’ll know where the others are.”

“Well, let’s go tell them their orders, then.” Aramis transfers one of Marsac’s hands over so that he has a grip on both wrists with one hand, and uses the other to stick Marsac’s dagger, collateral for their bets, in the other man’s belt. He grabs his own hat and jams it on his head. With a smile and a bow for the new Musketeer, a sullen, mysterious fellow called Athos, he pulls Marsac behind him and they make their exit.

“A week of camping on the border of Spain, eh.” He muses out loud. “I suppose you’ve promised Margaret that meal tonight?”

“I think we’re about done, her and I.” Marsac replies easily, finally twisting out of Aramis’ hold. “But let’s go to the Hind tonight anyways. If we’ve got a week of riding and soldier’s rations ahead of us, we could do with a good meal before we go.”

“That sounds ideal, my friend.”

Afterwards, Aramis thinks that he can remember that meal exactly. The sweetness of the young wine, the heavenly taste of rare meat and fresh bread, the delight of flirting with the pretty waitress. Marsac is in fine form, fond and teasing and charmingly witty. They cannot find Porthos, but Ferdinand joins them for more drinks after dinner, and when Marsac picks his pocket and pays the bill with his money, he doesn’t even notice. It is a good night, and even better in Aramis’ memories, the scenes limed in the golden hue of sentiment. Ferdinand leaves them with promises to find the rest of the unit and give them their orders before five tomorrow. Aramis and Marsac walk home in tandem step under the starry night sky, and it is late enough that in the silence of the city’s streets it feels as though they are the only two men in Paris.

Of the actual training exercise, the long ride down through Savoy and the two days of drills and formations, Aramis remembers little. Porthos could not be found, but the rest of the unit is there, and he remembers snippets of chill nights sitting by the fire, surrounded by twenty of his closest friends in the world.

He remembers less of the night of the massacre, only the sudden panic of horses, the shock of waking suddenly, confronted by screams and gunshots echoing in the dark as he fumbles for his sword and pistol. He remembers only dim flashes of fighting an enemy he can barely see, Marsac a reassuring presence at his side.

He doesn’t remember how he got the injury that laid him out, but from the stickiness of the head wound and the amount of blood he’d found on his neck and collar afterwards, he knows he would have died from it if Marsac hadn’t dragged him to the safety of the trees and applied a temporary bandage.

Years later, he will still be able to feel the scar through his hair.

The rest of that night is even more disjointed, sense memories only, the smell of leather, the screams of dying horses and men, the cold of winter forests, panting breaths and a familiar hand at the nape of his neck, silently reassuring him. Shivers, not his own, which had wracked the body supporting him and, by extension, been transferred into his own limbs.

And then the clearest image of that day: Marsac, outlined against the rising sun, amidst the corpses of their slaughtered friends, looking around like a lost man. Aramis had been too dazed to protest when Marsac had stripped off his bandolier and mounted one of the surviving horses. His throat had been so dry he hadn’t even protested as Marsac rode away.

He will run that scene through his head countless times in the years after, berate himself for not trying harder to call out, to call Marsac back.

He has no memory of how he made it back to Paris. Logically, he knows it was in the company of a troop of Musketeers who had ridden down as soon as they heard of the tragedy, who found him wandering in the woods miles away from the dead and took him to a surgeon before riding back home. The only thing he can really recall from that trip is the cold and endless misery he had felt when he rode into the Musketeer’s garrison, the lone survivor of the Savoy Massacre.

It takes his friends among the Musketeers months before they manage to coax him back out to the taverns. Porthos finally drags him one night, and Aramis drinks as heavily as Athos, trying to ignore the phantom laughter of a missed tenor voice. He doesn't ask what Athos is trying to forget. Aramis has willingly sacrificed much to be a soldier of the Musketeers, but this last grips at his heart, and for a long time Aramis refuses to let go of the memory of Marsac.

He wonders where he is, across the years. If he is well. If the blue eyes still crinkle with laughter, if the merry tenor is  hoarse with heartbreak. If he has learned caution, at last, his wild spirit finally broken by the deaths of his friends in Savoy. 

When he feels the blade across his throat and hears the burr of a hauntingly familiar voice in his ear, five years later, Aramis thinks, for one insane moment, that he has gotten a touch of sunstroke from standing so long in the summer’s heat. He almost doesn’t dare say the name.

“Marsac?”

Against his throat, the knife bobbles along with Marsac’s rough chuckle. “Hello, old friend.”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:
> 
> I have no official connection with any of the below characters or institutions or works, and write this fanfiction solely as a work of respect and appreciation for the original source material. All recognizable characters, events, dialogue, etc., obviously don’t belong to me.
> 
> Brief historical note: 
> 
> The Royal Musketeers aka the Musketeers of the Guard aka Les Mousquetaires de la Maison Militaire du Roi de France were a light cavalry founded in 1622 by Louis XIII. Cardinal Richelieu became Louis XIII’s chief minister in 1624, and led France’s entry into the Thirty Years War that same year. The Valtellina valley, according to Wikipedia, was a key alpine pass between northern Italy and Germany and a strategic battlefield during the Thirty Year’s War. France, Savoy and Venice allied under the 1623 Treaty of Paris against Spanish forces in the Valtelline valley, and French troops helped to push the Spanish out of the pass in 1625, the same year as the Savoy massacre in the BBC Musketeers canon. 
> 
> Timelines and non-canonical character backstories:
> 
> I imagine here that Aramis and Marsac are some of the first to join the Musketeers, in 1622. Marsac begins to exhibit signs of PTSD at Valtellina in late 1624/early 1625, preparing the way for his out of character desertion in Savoy later in the year in 1625. 
> 
> Apart from a throwaway line about Aramis once upon a time wanting to be a priest, I follow BBC’s lead and ignore the specifics of Dumas’ novel in fleshing out the character and world of the musketeers.


End file.
